


Coffee Break

by canis_m



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Office Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 20:30:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9512690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: Delightful office sex (and how to get it).





	

Mr. Graves was a careful man. One didn't become Director of Magical Security for MACUSA by being careless, but for Mr. Graves the application of care extended from his work to all things he considered worth having or doing. The cut of his suits, the shine of his shoes. His handsome apartment on the top floor of a brownstone in Gramercy Park ( _our_ apartment, Mr. Graves would say, if he could overhear the thought), the robust wards on all its entrances. 

It extended to Credence, unsparingly, since the day Credence had come to live with him. 

For the most part, Credence liked it. More than liked it--yearned for it, the way a parched throat yearns for a drink. Even when he felt undeserving of it.

For the most part.

*

He tried to say what he meant, one night when Graves' hands were on him in their shared bed, hands that worked dizzying spells without a word uttered. Palms fitted to Credence's hips, thumbs stroking. Coaxing Credence to move, to rock against him, rubbing sleek heat against heat. But gently. 

Credence's mouth opened and closed. _You can--anything,_ he tried to say. _Anything. I won't break._

Graves gripped at the meat of him--less scrawny now than a month ago--for a second Credence thought _oh_. But the grip eased and slid upward. It stopped at the lowermost line of scar inscribed on Credence's back. Graves was gazing at him, eyes soft and dark. He put his forehead to Credence's, and breathed his breath, and said _I know you won't, sweetheart._

*

On weekdays Credence studied potions with Miss Pyropia Finnery as part of his remedial education. Mr. Graves was instructing him in spells, charms, transfiguration--almost any business done with a wand--but that left no time for brewing, and besides, said Mr. Graves, "You'd want a better teacher. It was always my worst subject in school." 

Miss Finnery was thin and grey and elegant of motion, like a heron. She wore gold-rimmed glasses on the beak of her long nose. She had for many years taught Potions at Ilvermorny, only to retire for the sake of her health and return to the city. 

"I developed an allergy," she told Credence, some days after they'd begun their lessons. "To the adolescent kind. Years of overexposure. Fortunately, you are past that stage. And I don't mind doing Percival a favor."

Credence liked potions: the mincing and measuring, the need for watchful attention that occupied and calmed the mind. It felt like cooking, except the results were mostly more malodorous, not to say volatile, and you mostly didn't want to put them in your mouth.

The textbook they were using included recipes for love potions. Credence had resolved to ask Miss Finnery about them. It took him most of the hour to muster the nerve.

"Of course they work," she said, frowning at Credence across the worktable in her cluttered lab. "Are you intending to brew one?"

"Um," said Credence.

"I wouldn't advise Amortentia. You're making good progress, but don't get ahead of yourself. It's highly dangerous."

"What about...is there...not a potion to make someone _fall_ in love," said Credence, "just--"

"No potion can make someone truly fall in love. Not even Amortentia."

"No, but. If the person were already...something to make them less..."

Miss Finnery's eyebrows arched. "Inhibited?" 

Grateful to be supplied the word, Credence nodded.

She leveled a look. "Try Gigglewater," she said. "Or whiskey."

Credence's shoulders drooped. "Not that," he said. Mr. Graves regularly drank a glass or two of whiskey in the evenings, to no apparent effect when he came to bed. "Something to--to incite someone to--" _Sin,_ he heard in his mind, croaked in Ma's harsh voice. _Sodomy. Unbridled fornication._

"An aphrodisiac," said Miss Finnery. "To make the drinker 'hot and bothered'?"

Credence felt his face and ears burning like the very fires of Hell, but he stared resolutely at his knees and nodded. 

Miss Finnery reached across the table and flipped unerring through the book. Even upside-down, she quickly found the page she wanted, and pointed with one crinkled finger at the text.

"Amoretti," she said. "A standby of witches burdened with neglectful husbands. The effects will last an hour or so at most." She surveyed Credence from behind the thin rims of her glasses. "I suppose Percival has been very busy these days. With his work."

Without waiting for his stuttered reply, Miss Finnery rose from her stool and went to one of the laboratory cabinets. After rummaging in its innards, she returned with a small cloth pouch. She slid the pouch across the table to Credence. 

"Ashwinder eggshell," she said. "Powdered. Use only a pinch, and follow the recipe as written. _Don't_ deviate." She fixed him with a beady stare. "An overdose can put a man in a painful state, which tends to defeat the purpose."

Quailing, Credence stared. His own heartbeat drummed in his ears, brazen and tumultuous. He swallowed and reached for the pouch.

*

"Coffee, Mr. Graves?"

Graves' eyes flickered up from his desk. It was Goldstein, peeking through his office door--the younger Goldstein, the blonde, newly in his employ, who by way of having a sister also in his employ obliged Graves (to his chagrin) to call her something other than her last name. They'd have to find a workaround. For the moment he returned his scrutiny to the report in his hands.

"I didn't hire you out of Wand Permits to make coffee," he said. "I hired you to read minds."

"Aw, it's no bother. Everybody needs a little pick-me-up this time of day. You sure you don't want a cup? Maybe your visitor might."

Graves blinked. "Visitor?" 

With a pert smile, Goldstein Jr. swayed aside to reveal the figure hovering in the hall behind her. Lanky, dark-headed, striking in his smart new suit, but hunched at the shoulders, as if the weight of the Woolworth Building itself were pressing them down. 

The report in Graves' hands sank to the desk. He was aware, distantly, of his mouth pulling sideways, one corner turning up. Credence shuffled fully into the room, clutching a brown paper sack. Goldstein Jr. bustled forward with her tray and set two cups of coffee on the desk.

"I'll just leave these here, just in case. You boys enjoy." 

"Thanks, Queenie," Graves said.

Dimpling, she scooped up the tray and scooted herself out, shutting the office door behind her. 

When she was gone Graves smiled outright. "This is a surprise," he said. Pleasure in his voice, to make sure Credence understood: the good kind. "Everything all right?"

Credence nodded. His gaze darted around the room from under cover of his lashes, taking in the desk of dark wood, the glass-fronted cabinets that lined the walls, holding their array of magical devices: Secrecy Sensors and Probity Probes, omnioculars and gleaming orreries. He glanced with guilty trepidation at the papers on the desk. 

"Is it--a bad time? Should I go?"

"Go? You just got here. Have a seat. Have some coffee." Obedient, Credence lowered himself into the chair facing the desk. "How'd you get down here, by the way?"

"Miss Queenie was kind enough to escort me." 

"Glad I gave that woman security clearance." Graves eased himself back in his chair. He eyed the bag Credence was still clutching. "So what's in the sack?"

Credence looked down as if he'd forgotten what was in his hands. He uncrumpled the top of the paper bag and opened it.

"I was helping--this morning--at the bakery. Mr. Kowalski said to take some kolaches. He made too many, he said." A pause. "I thought--if you weren't too busy--"

"Good initiative," said Graves. "I like it." Lifting his coffee cup, he slid the saucer out from under it to act as a plate. Credence fished in the bag, drew out a kolache--a soft round of dough spread with cherry red filling--and laid it on the saucer. After a hesitation he took one for himself. 

For a minute they ate in silence: Credence nibbled, while Graves halved his kolache in one bite. He wasn't much for sweets, usually, but he could appreciate craftsmanship when he found it. And the coffee was good. He washed the sweet dough down with a swig.

"Give the No-Maj credit, he knows how to bake," he said. Another bite, another swallow. Only then did Graves notice Credence had gone pale--starker than usual--and his eyes were fixed on the cup in Graves' hand. 

A funny feeling sloshed in Graves' stomach. "Credence?"

"Stop," blurted Credence, in a strangled voice. "Don't--don't drink any more."

Graves stilled. He lowered the cup. His eyebrows climbed in inquiry. 

"Something I should know about?"

Miserably, Credence nodded.

Lifting the cup again, Graves sniffed. Hints of heated sweetness lingered on his tongue. New as she was, the younger Goldstein knew he liked his coffee black, no sugar. 

"Thought it was a tad sweet," he murmured. "Amoretti?"

Stricken, Credence looked up, then down, as if eye contact were impossible to sustain.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracked as he spoke. "I'm so sorry. Please don't--" He broke off. His hands balled in his lap as he hunched into himself, wincing, eyes reddening downward and away. 

Graves set down the cup. He was more surprised than fussed; after all, every kid at Ilvermorny messed around with potions sooner or later, and Credence was making up for lost time. It was like him, too, to panic over a minor misdemeanor. Graves suspected at least one accessory, maybe two. 

"I'm not going to throw you in a cell," he said gently. "I'm a little concerned about motive." Pushing cup and saucer aside, he leaned over the desk, as if proximity might coax Credence to look up. "Credence. Talk to me?"

A jerked headshake. "I don't know. I shouldn't have. It was wrong."

"Never mind 'shouldn't have' for a minute. Tell me what you wanted."

Credence raised his eyes to the level of the coffee cup. He licked his lips. "I wanted you to--not be so careful. You're always." His hands on his lap gave a flutter: the aborted start of a bird into flight. "Like I'm made of glass." 

Without another thought Graves was on his feet, propelled around the desk toward Credence, reaching to soothe. 

"Sweetheart." He lowered his voice. Cupped the dear face between his hands. "Nobody knows how strong you are better than I do."

He meant it. He did know it: not only the resilience that had borne the boy through a hell of a life, but the scale of the power he was just beginning to grow into. The day Credence came into his own, really and truly--when that day arrived, thought Graves, the scum of the wizarding world had better watch their worthless backs. Gellert Grindelwald included.

Credence looked up from between his palms. "But you don't touch me like you know that." One of his hands crept upward; he laid it over Graves' with a hesitance that scraped at Graves' heart. "Is it...is it because of my scars?"

Graves sagged against the edge of the desk. "Not just that." He slid his hands down Credence's neck, onto the slump of his shoulders, and held them there, firming. "It's that, but it's me, too. You know what I do here. Sometimes I have to be rough with people, even when I don't want to be. I don't want to bring that home." His hands gave a brief squeeze. He pitched his voice lower still. "If you want me to hurt you on purpose, Credence, we're going to have to talk about that. I don't know if I can."

Confusion clouded Credence's face. He shook it away. "I don't want that. Just--"

Graves studied him. "Not so much with the kid gloves?" 

A nod. 

"All right. I think I get it." Graves sat back. His mouth twisted in spite of himself. "What I don't get is why here. Mercy Lewis. You couldn't have waited till we got home?"

Credence exhaled, soft and sheepish. "If you were going to be angry with me, I'd rather it be--somewhere else. Not home." He looked up. "Do you want me to go?"

"What, you think you're going to cut and run? No, no, no. Wrong department for that, Mr. Barebone." Graves took hold of Credence's wrists and encircled them, making warm handcuffs of his clasp. "I'm going to need you to take responsibility for your actions."

Credence reddened, but the teasing seemed to hearten him. "You're really not mad?"

Shaking his head, Graves bent. He drew Credence up from the chair and into his arms, between his outspread legs. Credence came hurriedly, burrowing in with a sigh.

"A little warning next time you want to dose me, all right?" Graves waited for Credence's nod, then nuzzled his earlobe. "I'm not mad. Just starting to get hot under the collar." The heat was coming on slowly--more slowly than he remembered from his last Amoretti bender, but then again he wasn't a kid anymore, and he hadn't drunk the whole cup. Still nuzzling, he breathed into the curl of Credence's ear. "You want me to take you home?"

A tremor passed through Credence. He shook his head. He spoke into the crook of Graves' neck, too muffled to be heard.

"Hm?"

In a whisper: "Take me here." Hands clutched at Graves' waistcoat, clinging. "I want it, I want you to, please, please--"

Startled, Graves drew back enough to look at him, and found Credence's whole face suffused with a flush. The bottom dropped out of Graves' stomach. The curve of a white cup glinted in the corner of his eye. 

"Credence," he said. "Did you put that stuff in your coffee, too?"

Credence nodded.

"Ah, hell." Graves knocked their heads together, gently. Why on earth Credence thought he needed help with needing--and it wasn't kosher, not at all, to get as low a thrill as Graves got from knowing himself to be craved. He wished he could blame it on the drink. But if Credence needed, and he needed, and if Credence wanted, and he wanted--and with Credence tenting up hard against his hip and Graves getting there fast, everything seemed supremely simple. 

He tugged Credence close and kissed him. The sound Credence made into his mouth sent a bolt like a curse through Graves' gut and up his spine. He aimed a hand at the office door and, with a sharp twist of magic, locked it. With another wave he reinforced the muting spell over the room, then doubled it for good measure. Credence was never loud, but Credence had never pulled a stunt like this, either, and Graves wasn't eager to be overheard.

He drew more of Credence's weight onto him, feeling the press of him, groin to groin. Ran his hands over the smooth twill of his jacket, a jacket he'd bought and paid for, along with every other stitch Credence now wore. Breathed in the good, clean scent of him, laced with Graves' own shampoo in his hair, Graves' aftershave under his jaw. The swell of relish he got from that wasn't kosher, either. None of it was. All of it lit a fire under his gut.

They kissed again--and again, raggedly, until both of them were short on air. Credence rocked against him like he was helpless not to, fingers digging into Graves' back like the claws of a cat into a tree. Reaching down, Graves opened up his trousers and palmed him. He stroked head and shaft to throbbing, until Credence trembled, and then he slid his hand around behind to the little rosebud opening of his hole.

A spell to slicken, another to ease. They hadn't done this enough to be slapdash with preparation. Two fingers, and Graves kept murmuring until the clench around them gave.

Credence squirmed. "Don't, I want to feel it--"

"Oh, you'll feel it." Graves nosed the lobe of his ear. "You want it here? You want me in you?" 

A whimpered _yes_. Graves thumbed the waist of Credence's trousers. 

"Then get these off," he said.

He could've used a disrobing charm. Instead he let Credence do it the old-fashioned way, hurried and fumbling, and drape his shed trousers over the back of the chair. When Credence was naked from the waist down, he looked at Graves uncertainly, then ducked his head and braced himself against the desk.

The vision of it seared Graves, along with a conviction that if he actually did fuck Credence over the damned desk, the memory would wreck his attempts at paperwork for weeks. He unbuttoned his pants. Grasping Credence by the hips, Graves turned him, pulled him back into his embrace, and hefted him up with both hands under his behind. 

Lanky as he was, Credence was no lightweight, and had a solid inch on Graves when he bothered to stand up straight. Graves staggered briefly, then muttered a charm. The spell helped carry them over to the wall of cabinets, where they landed together with a thump. 

Still holding him up, Graves pinned him there, braced against the dark wood and glass. Credence latched around him like a padlock, his ankles crossed at Graves' backside, arms around Graves' neck. His cock strained between them, smearing Graves' shirt and vest with daubs of wet.

Graves drew a breath through his nose. Another muttered spell, another coat of slick for his own cock, which was happily reporting for duty. He positioned himself and eased in.

Tight heat--too tight, almost. Credence made a fragmentary sound, and Graves swore. He shifted Credence up to improve the angle. That was better--the slide grew smoother--and Credence exhaled, letting his head loll. 

Graves gave them a minute, keeping himself ruthlessly still. He ran his hands up and down Credence's taut thighs. "All right?"

"Mm."

"That a yes?"

"Yes, sir."

With a huff Graves let his hips begin to shift. Slight as it was, the incremental in-and-out was glorious. "What'd I say about 'sir'?"

Credence tipped his head back against the glass, showing his white throat. "You said I could call you whatever I wanted. And that no one calls you 'Percival' but your maiden aunt." His eyes were bright and black, his mouth stretched in a tiny smile. "I think everyone should call you 'sir.'"

In spite of himself, Graves puffed a laugh. "Even the President?"

"Everyone," said Credence. 

"That's my boy." Bumping their foreheads together, Graves let out a sigh. "God, you feel good." 

He'd meant to take it slow. Slow didn't last, not with Credence slick and yielding around him, clinging to Graves with his whole body, a tangle of entreaty and demand. Graves rasped into his ear. 

"Not used to taking things easy, hm? You want it hard?" He squeezed with both hands, felt Credence clutch him back. "You want me to give it to you hard?"

Credence moaned--something that sounded like _please_ , and something else that might've been _don't stop_. With a groan Graves set to fucking him in earnest, letting his hips snap. The cabinet behind them shuddered. Maybe a quarter of the instruments it held were capable of magical recording. Graves laid his temple on the rattling glass and spared a prayer that none of them were taking notes. 

The pleasure mounted, knocking him senseless, like a spate of blows to the head. Someone was grunting with all the grace of a roused Erumpent. It wasn't Credence, but Credence was panting open-mouthed and scrabbling at Graves' neck. Graves gritted his teeth. He could feel himself beginning to go molten. He reached between them, got his hand on the head of Credence's cock. He grasped and tugged once, twice, in time with his thrusts. 

With a caught cry Credence jerked and spilled between them. Graves fucked him through it, groaning garbled praise into his hair. Then Credence sealed a hand over his nape, gasped _please_ again, and that was it--Graves was gone, pitching into the white-hot clench of him, pouring himself out deep inside. 

He slumped, breathing hard. Credence nudged into the crook of his neck and clung. Without the spell to brace them, Graves had a feeling they would've wound up on the floor.

When he slipped out of Credence, going soft, Credence made a mournful noise. Graves turned to nuzzle the top of his head, then pressed a kiss to his brow. 

"Still all right?"

He felt Credence's nod. Then, after a heartbeat, a soft kiss to his neck. 

"Are you?" Credence asked. 

Graves cracked a crooked smile. "Outstanding."

By dint of magic, if nothing else, he got them both into the chair by the desk without dropping Credence or collapsing. When Credence was arranged across his lap as comfortably as the chair allowed, Graves reached for his wand and cleaned them up. 

No sooner had he set it down again than someone knocked at the door. Credence nearly jumped out of his skin. Stifling a laugh, Graves stroked his flank to soothe him. 

"Reminder of your three o'clock with Madam Picquery, Mr. Graves," said a woman's voice in the hall.

"Thanks, Calloway." 

Graves listened for the receding footsteps, and went on stroking Credence until the tension in him waned. At last Credence sagged and looked at him.

"You have to go?"

"In a minute. Got to go see a lady about a dog." Graves' eye fell on the half-drunk cups of coffee still cooling on the desk. He gathered Credence close, tucking the dark head against his chin. "What're we going to do with you? We can't Apparate out of here."

"I can walk," mumbled Credence, with admirable over-ambition. "I can leave the way I came in."

"I'm not sending you out there unescorted."

"Miss Queenie would--" Credence began, and then stopped.

"She would," agreed Graves. "That's the problem." If Goldstein Jr. got a load of everything in Credence's head right now, Graves didn't think he could look her in the face again. "Remind me to have you work on Occlumency."

"I will," Credence said.

Grasping his wand again, Graves summoned a sheet of letterhead from the desk. With a wave he enlarged and transfigured it into a panel screen, one of those Chinese-style jobs. All it needed was a painted tiger on the front, or maybe a prowling wampus cat. The screen unfolded and settled in the corner of the room. For the nook behind it Graves transformed a spare chair into a chaise longue, and his overcoat into a cushion to pad it. Credence watched, looking as avid as he always did when objects suddenly revised themselves into other things. 

Graves sat him upright, one steadying hand at his waist. "How's this. You put your feet up, take a nap, read if you want. Nobody'll bother you in here. When I'm done we'll go home together."

The worry that crept into Credence's face seemed more habitual than anything else. "I won't be in the way?"

"It's my office," said Graves. "You won't hear any complaints out of me."

*

Pyropia Finnery was unsurprised when, a day later, the Director of Magical Security turned up in her parlor unannounced, in fine feather. She unwrapped the shawl from her shoulders--having just returned from her morning constitutional--and gave him a reproving frown.

"It's rude to invade, Mr. Graves, but I suppose you imagine you have some grievance?"

"I didn't imagine the Amoretti in my coffee, Miss Finnery. I'm not paying you to be an insalubrious influence."

Pyropia cocked her head. "Did he go through with it? I'm a little surprised. I rather expected him to use it on himself."

Paying no heed to Percival's looming, she went to her kitchen and returned with two smallish canisters. She displayed the canisters to her guest.

"Cocoa powder," she said blandly, "and confectioner's sugar. That's what was in your young man's potion. _Not_ Ashwinder egg."

She watched his expression change. However middling a student Percival had been, he knew that without its active ingredient, a potion had no effect. 

Devilish as it was, she couldn't resist one more dig. "Did you have a pleasant evening?"

Percival cleared his throat. He reached for his wand.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Finnery," he said, and vanished with a swirling pop. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1184.html?thread=1782176#cmt1782176) kink meme prompt, with apologies to the OP if this wasn't quite as frantic as you'd hoped for.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr: unicornmagic.tumblr.com


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